


for this night and all the nights to come

by azurish



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Power Dynamics, Vulnerability, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 16:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12112632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azurish/pseuds/azurish
Summary: Alone in wildling territory, Qhorin Halfhand finds himself without any hope of aid from his brothers in the Watch when he comes across monsters he'd thought only existed in myth. He discovers an unexpected ally against wights and White Walkers in the form of his former comrade Mance Rayder. Saving each other's lives in the heat of battle is easy, but the aftermath leaves both men struggling to decide how much more tension the tangled mess of betrayals and sadness that lies between them can bear and whether they can depend on each other to survive.





	for this night and all the nights to come

**Author's Note:**

> Look, [their love is tragic, OK,](http://azurish.tumblr.com/post/165200699656/hope-you-were-looking-for-a-tragic-asoiaf-rarepair) and once I realized that, I had to fix things, so this ridiculously tropey fic is 100% not my fault. :P
> 
> Warnings for moderate violence (lower than canon levels, but there is a fight scene), non-gory medical care in the next chapter, and a brief reference to consent issues in the last chapter. I'll add a note later if any of these warnings change (and will move these warnings to the end notes once I'm done posting the fic).

 

            The first sign of danger Qhorin Halfhand noticed was that it was colder than it should have been.  He’d left the Shadow Tower days ago and had been traveling at a brisk pace, but even still, he was hardly so far north that it should be this painfully cold so early in summer.  After years of freezing through the seasons north of the Wall, he knew the southwestern foothills of the Frostfangs better than any other Westerosi.  He’d never before thought the wind could slice through him quite so cruelly at this time of year.  But if he wasn’t mistaken, he could feel the heavy damp of moisture in the air that portended a winter blizzard.

            Frowning up at the pale, cold sky, he stopped to take stock of his circumstances in the lee of a craggy promontory.  The men he had taken with him to track down a wildling raiding party had remained south of the mountains.  He’d ordered them to keep watch over the Gorge to ensure no more raiders crossed there.  He had ventured alone, on foot, into the range, to learn the truth of the disturbing reports they had heard from survivors about the size and cohesion of the wildling party.  His fellow black brothers wouldn’t need to worry about this summer cold snap for days yet – and they could always retreat to the Shadow Tower.  The wildling group he was tracking would likely have halted to weather out the storm.  He might well lose their tracks if he stopped now, but better that than lose his life.  He needed to follow their lead and find somewhere to weather out the storm, as quickly as he could, judging by how sharply the temperature was dropping.

            Those wildlings had an advantage, however.  They knew the terrain far better than he.  The Frostfangs were brutal to the mountain people, but they were deadly to outsiders.  And despite how long Qhorin had spent roaming the lands beyond the Wall, he would never truly be a son of the far North.  Shelter was hard to find in the blasted, rocky landscape, and the wind was picking up far faster than he had anticipated.

            The snow was falling in earnest and a thick white mist had risen before he managed to find any cover.  Between the flakes beginning to soak through his cloak and his own sweat from the exertion, he could already feel the clammy, creeping damp that never boded well for a man alone in a blizzard.  So he greeted the sight of the sort of narrow fissure at the base of a cliff face that the wildlings called a rock shelter with considerable relief.  The opening was barely two feet tall, and it only extended a body’s length back into the darkness, but it was shelter.  Far better shelter than the handful of stunted trees growing in the valley behind him, which had been his only hope so far.  Hastily clearing out the snow that had accumulated in the tiny cave, he knelt down and crawled into the crevice.  He scrabbled at the snow at the front of the cave, piling it up to block off most of the opening and insulate the cave from the worst of the cold.  He stopped when there was only a small gap for fresh air left and all his remaining fingers were alarmingly numb from the cold.

            The cave mouth secured well enough, he dragged himself to the very back wall and arranged his cloak as best he could around him, his movements awkward in the cramped space.  Shivers continued to wrack his frame for minutes yet.  He listened to the wind rising outside with increasing concern.  Had the masters been too hasty in declaring summer?  This was no summer squall – nor even a late spring jest from the cruel gods to mock hopeful mortals.  This was winter weather.  Qhorin would stake his life on it.

            He’d started to drowse when the crunch of running feet on snow interrupted the monotonous strains of the storm.  His hand flew to the dagger at his belt, the only weapon he had room to draw in the cave.  If he remained in the cave, perhaps whatever poor bastard was caught out in the storm would overlook his shelter – but if they found him, he’d be a helpless target, stuck crouching in the cave as they toyed with him at their leisure – yet pushing blindly through the snowy opening to escape the shelter would leave him even more vulnerable …

            He would not be killed on his knees, he decided.  He had lived too long as a ranger to accept a meaningless death so easily.  Staying in the cave was too risky; perhaps the element of surprise would let him kill whoever was out there quickly enough.

            He was crawling to the edge of the cave, when yet another sound stopped him.  This time, it was a series of eerie echoing hisses, which grew into a cacophony of mindless screeching that triggered a deep, primal urge to flee.  He had heard more than his share of hideous noises in his life, but nothing had ever pierced him to the core like this.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up; his hand shook on his dagger.  Then the thunk of a sword cutting through flesh – and a voice he hadn’t heard in years, gasping out, “Stay down, damn you, _stay down_.”

            Once upon a time, he might have walked through the worst winter storm for the man who spoke with that voice.  Not that he would ever have told him something so ridiculous and sentimental, of course.  Now, Qhorin slammed his shoulder through the packed snow at the cave mouth without a second thought, rolling out into the snowy valley beyond in a single burst of energy.

            Mance Rayder stood tall in the middle of the roaring snowstorm, naked sword in his hand and crimson blood pouring down his face from a gash above his temple.  The sight of his appearance now slotted neatly in place over the memories Qhorin had of him – same sharp face and quick brown eyes, his brown hair starting to go gray but still as wild and curly as ever, and those damnable jaunty red panels in his cloak that had started all the trouble long ago.  The image arrested him for just a moment, breath catching in his chest, before he sprung to his feet to see whatever it was Mance had been facing.

            That horror proved a far grimmer sight.  Like a nightmare come to life, half a dozen corpses were shambling towards them.  The flesh hung off their bones in places, and their blue eyes were colder than the storm around them.  By Mance’s feet was the torso of one of their fellows – but, though the onetime black brother had managed to hack the creature in half, it still screeched mindlessly and pulled itself along with its arms to keep fighting.  With another blow, Mance severed its head from its shoulders – but its teeth continued to clatter horribly where it fell, and its limbs continued to advance.

            “Wights,” Qhorin breathed, for there was no mistaking the creatures before him.

            Mance spun around wildly to face him.  Half a dozen expressions flickered across his face, far too quickly for Qhorin to follow, until he finally pressed his lips together grimly and met Qhorin’s stunned gaze.  “Fire stops them for good,” he called out, pitching his voice above the wild winds and moaning monsters.  “I’ll hold them off here – you light a flame to kill them with.  Quickly – before we both die, Halfhand!”

            Qhorin scrambled back to the copse of trees he had spotted earlier.  Retracing his path in the thick snow was no mean feat, but soon enough he found himself by the black branches.  With a brutal swing of his sword, he chopped off the largest branch he could find – hacking at trees was no way to preserve the blade, but then, from what he had seen, cold steel would be useless against these creatures.  His gestures quick and sure, he stripped the wet outer layer of bark with his knife, then produced a leather flask of whisky from a pouch under his cloak and thoroughly doused the end of the stick.  He drew his second dagger from its sheath strapped to his calf and struck it with a piece of flint from a pocket.  A shower of sparks cascaded onto the dripping wood.  The makeshift torch was soon blazing brightly.

            With fleet feet, he flew across the snowy terrain back to the battle, following the hissing of the wights to return to Mance and the rock shelter.  He shielded the fiery branch from the snow and the worst of the storm with his body.  Not a moment later, a blade whistled by his ear.  Acting on pure instinct, Qhorin dodged, and the wight’s axe glanced off his heavy cloak instead of lopping off his head.  He swung the flaming torch like a sword, and when he hit the creature, it was flung back by the power of the blow and lit up like dry tinder.  The stench of the wight burning was sickening.

            He whirled about to find Mance beset on all sides, a ring of wights surrounding him.  They moved without grace, but the creatures were inexorable.  Growling, Qhorin charged towards them.  He’d managed to light up three more before he saw Mance go down out of the corner of an eye.  Blood singing in his veins, Qhorin faced off the remaining wights alone, thrashing about indiscriminately with the branch.  The flames were beginning to lick higher on his improvised torch, stinging against his fingers – but better that than the fire die out.  He kicked one burning corpse into another, and then saw the last wight advancing on the fallen wildling king.  Gritting his teeth, Qhorin hurled the torch forward like a spear.  His aim proved true: the creature let out a piercing wail and convulsed, falling backwards in a fiery blaze.

            His nerves were still jangling, and he nearly flinched like a green boy when Mance groaned and staggered to his feet.  He was bleeding sluggishly from a long, ragged wound along one thigh – probably the blow that had taken him down.  “There’s worse behind them,” the other man said.  “With a storm like this, there must be Others yet to come.  We’re not going to fight those and win.  We need to hide, Halfhand, fast as we can.”  He began limping toward the rock shelter before them.  Wordlessly, Qhorin offered his shoulder to lean against; Mance shuddered and rested most of his weight against him.  Half-carrying Mance, he stomped through the snow to the cave.

            The rock shelter was much more cramped with two bodies inside.  Mance practically collapsed against the far wall once he’d dragged himself inside.  Qhorin crouched by the front of the cave, his back to his onetime friend, and harnessed the remaining shaking energy from the fight to build the snow wall back up.  He hissed through his teeth when his fingers touched the freezing, wet snow – his burns from holding that stick for so long were already turning into angry red blisters on his sole good hand.

            He remained pressed by the opening he’d left for air at the mouth of the cave long enough to see at least a dozen more of those creatures lope by, long enough to catch a brief glimpse of a tall, otherworldly being with the blue eyes and white skin of a child’s nightmare.  Then his courage failed him and he retreated to the back of the cave.

            “Terrible, aren’t they?” Mance said, propping himself up on an elbow.  His mouth twisted into a brief grimace of pain.  Almost abstractly, Qhorin noted the blood still streaked across his forehead and the slash along his leg.

            “I saw –” Qhorin began, and then cut himself off.

            “You saw an Other.  A White Walker.”

            Qhorin nodded.

            “Well, you fought half a dozen wights.  Can’t see what makes an Other so hard to believe after that,” Mance said.

            Qhorin scowled.

            “You’ve always respected the power of the old gods beyond your Wall,” Mance said.  “Why is it so hard to believe in the old monsters as well?”

            “I must return to tell my brothers,” Qhorin said slowly.  “None at the Wall are prepared –”

            “And none at the wall will believe,” Mance interrupted.  “Oh, here’s the Halfhand come back, madder than ever from the cold, to tell us that the grumkins are coming for us.  Always knew that much time in the land of the free folk couldn’t be good for any decent kneeler, but –”

            “Enough,” Qhorin said.

            “There’s no one other than the free folk who are prepared to take this threat seriously.  Of course, your seven kingdoms will take it seriously enough when the dead are at their doorstep, but by then …” Mance hitched a shoulder in a quick half-shrug.  “Funny, isn’t it?  While all your brothers at the Wall jaw about protecting people, _we’re_ the ones facing the real threat that Bran the Builder feared in the first place.  Might even say that _I’ve_ ended up the best oathkeeper of all of you, after all.”

            Qhorin’s scowl deepened.

            “Nothing to say?  Shadowcat got your tongue?  Qhorin Halfhand, who glowers at shadows with a face made of wood, who’ll kill a wildling bastard soon as look at him but can’t find the balls to fight the real threat –”

            “I know it kills you ever to bow to anyone, Mance, but have you ever thought about not angering the man you’re trapped in a cave with, when you’re to hurt to hold a sword, let alone fight me off?” Qhorin snapped.

            Mance threw back his head and laughed.  “It’ll be a cold day in all seven hells before I’d ever be too weak to beat you.  Besides.  If you meant to kill me, you’d’ve done it out there.  You’re not going to butcher me now, when your battle blood’s died down and you’ve gone to the trouble of helping me in here.”

            “I should.”

            “You won’t.”

            “I’ve spent most of my life fighting your people, Rayder,” Qhorin said.  “It’d be a triumph to kill their king.”

            “And you spent half a dozen years eying my arse when you thought I wasn’t looking – and a few more finding every dark nook we could in Castle Black to –”

            “If you think I’m a man who’d let a couple good rolls in the hay get in the way of doing my duty,” Qhorin said, “you must have mistaken me for some other black brother you fucked.”

            To his surprise, Mance’s expression softened.  “You’re not carved of stone, Qhorin, for all you pretend to be.  For all you think you are, even,” said Mance.  “No, don’t disagree – you’re a man like me.  Maybe you’ve those other kneelers at the Wall fooled, but I’ve always known what you are.”  Qhorin shook his head, but Mance simply said, “I’ve always known you, friend or foe, lover or brother.  You’re never going to kill me in here.  And you’re lying to yourself if you think otherwise.”

            With that, he lowered himself to lie down on his side, grunting sharply as the movement jostled his wounds.  Qhorin’s fingers twitched once, twice on the hilt of his knife, but at last he let his hand drop away.  He bowed his head.

            Outside the rock shelter, the storm winds – likely brought by the Others, if Qhorin remembered his tales right – howled angrily.  They were dying down, but the snow would fall a while yet.  For now, there was nothing for it but to wait out the storm.  Sleep a while and see what the morning brought.


End file.
